Just Call Me Mrs Suit
by Dickensian812
Summary: What's it like being married to an FBI agent? Elizabeth's POV.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Elizabeth or any of the other characters. I just wanted to try seeing through her eyes for a while.

I'll try to add some more chapters to this, with more from Elizabeth's perspective on things, as the show goes along.

"It was nice to see you, Mrs. Suit."

I had to smile at that. No matter how many times I coaxed Mozzie into calling me _Elizabeth_ or _El_, in the end he always slipped back to _Mrs. Suit._

I didn't mind, really. Actually, I liked it. Coming from Mozzie, somehow it felt right.

After the door closed behind him, I took a deep breath, got up from the sofa, and headed resolutely toward the kitchen to wash out the wineglasses, Satchmo padding at my heels. It wouldn't do to sit in there dwelling on Peter's whereabouts, even if for the moment Mozzie had him safely hidden away. (Safe with Mozzie! What a concept.) I had learned that a long time ago.

_Mrs. Suit_ was still echoing in my mind as I turned on the water. Yes, I liked the title. Even though it came with its share of headaches, heartaches, and just plain exasperation.

"You're married to an FBI agent? What's that like?" How often had I faced that question from curious colleagues, clients, neighbors, and acquaintances? Often enough to toss off a practiced smile and a light answer. It wasn't as if they really wanted to know—not the _real_ answers. Or would believe any of it if I told them.

Oh, they might have liked some of the stories. The ones about desperate hunted criminals hiding out in my kitchen, or my husband smashing a bug planted in our cable box. They'd like that kind of thing if it were made into an exciting anecdote. Not if they were actually there, living through it, seeing the stress and anxiety on Neal's face, or the frustration in Peter's eyes and the tight lines around his mouth. (Or to feel the embarrassment of having been the one to let the fake cable guy in—and _given him coffee_!) These incidents always sound so much more glamorous in the telling.

Even this evening's story, of coming in the door all excited for date night and finding nothing but a kitchen full of smoke and a pot roast turned to charcoal. . . . Even that one couldn't be turned into just another annoying-husband punchline to laugh over with the girls. Maybe I had thought so just at first, while dumping the blackened lump in the sink and waving the smoke out the window. But—no, not really. Even in the midst of my annoyance, I knew, down in the pit of my stomach, that there was more to it.

You always know.

Slowly, I finished wiping the last glass and set it on the counter. With nothing to do, my hands found themselves gripping the edge of the sink as I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar prickle of fear in my spine. Deep breath. Another one.

_He's fine. Azaleas. He's fine._

I repeated it like a mantra until, very gradually, the tension began to ease. I opened my eyes, pulled myself together, and reached for the dish towel again.

_And there's another one they'd never believe_, I thought wryly, turning to hang it up. _Having a safe word for your husband. _A sudden grin came unbidden to my face. _And they'd REALLY never believe it if I told them why it's "azaleas."_

Not even Mozzie would believe that story. Not even _Neal_ would believe _that_ story. Which was why I'd never tell. Not them; not anyone.

That one was just for me and the Suit.


	2. Chapter 2

(This chapter contains spoilers from "Company Man.")

The ringing startled me out of a sound sleep, causing me to wonder for a few disoriented seconds where I was. My eye fell on the alarm clock as I fumbled for the phone on the hotel nightstand. Nearly midnight.

"Hello?" I mumbled.

"Elizabeth? This is Neal."

The urgent voice brought me wide awake. "Neal? What's wrong?"

"It's Peter."

"Wha-?" By now I'd thrown the covers off and was reaching for the light switch.

Neal was working hard to stay calm, I could tell. "First of all, you need to know he's gonna be all right."

People don't call you in the middle of the night to tell you your husband is going to be all right, unless your husband is not currently all right. Dread choked my voice into a harsh whisper. "_What happened?_"

"He's been—"

"He's been shot?" It came rushing out of my mouth. That was my own little nightmare scenario, the one that lived at the back of my mind every day while I tried hard to pretend it wasn't there. Every FBI spouse has one.

"Shot? No!" Neal sounded surprised. "No. He—he was poisoned."

The walls of the hotel room contracted around me. "P-poisoned?" That had never been one of the nightmares.

Neal was talking fast now. I had to force myself to concentrate on the rushing words, gripping the phone until my hand hurt.

"He was meeting with a murder suspect. Someone put digitalis in the guy's Armagnac—trying to get revenge. Peter got some of it. But he's okay, Elizabeth. He's okay. The paramedics got there in time."

"Where is he now?"

"We're at the hospital. They're still working on him, but he'll be fine. He's conscious, and he asked me to call and tell you he'll be just fine."

I had my suitcase out of the closet and was throwing things into it without really seeing them. "I'll leave for the airport in a few minutes. I should be able to get there by morning. Mid-morning at the latest."

Neal was talking over me. "Elizabeth, you don't have to come. Peter said—"

"Neal." I stopped dead in the middle of the floor with a half-folded blouse in my hand. "I really. Don't. Care. What Peter said. I will be there by morning. Now I have to—"

"Elizabeth, wait!" The insistence in Neal's tone broke through to me, stilling my whirling thoughts for a moment. "Wait a second. Listen. When they brought Peter out and got him—got him awake, the first thing he did was arrest the murder suspect."

I blinked. "He . . . arrested . . ."

"Right there on the gurney." I could almost hear Neal's sudden uncontrollable grin as he remembered it. "Apparently he'd got a confession out of the guy before they blacked out. Whipped out his badge and put him under arrest, right before they loaded them both into the ambulance."

I groped behind me for the bed and sank down on the edge of it. My voice, when it came, was very small and very precise. "Neal, thank you for calling me. I have to go now. I will call you from the airport with my flight number."

I hung up the phone and burst into tears—huge, noisy tears of relief.

It was true. Peter really _was_ going to be all right.


	3. Chapter 3

(During the hiatus, I'll be doing various scenes from season 1. This is a double drabble from "Vital Signs.")

"I stole a security tape from that clinic today."

I pause with the last forkful halfway to my mouth and regard him sympathetically. Here we go. Whenever Peter has something on his conscience, it always comes out between dinner and dessert.

"I'm sure you did it for a good cause, honey."

Peter snorts. "You tell me. I did it to keep Caffrey's neck out of the noose. Again."

"Shh." I shoot a protective glance over his shoulder, toward the living room. "He might be awake by now. He'll hear you."

Peter just rolls his eyes.

"Anyway, isn't that worth doing? Isn't it better for him to be helping you than stuck away in prison?"

"Sometimes I wonder . . ."

"And besides," I break in, "he did the same for you." I lift an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah," Peter mutters, "but he _enjoys_ doing that kind of thing."

I pat his shoulder soothingly as I pass him, on my way to put the dishes in the sink. He just needs some time. Just a little time to think it over and collect himself, and he'll be okay. Again.

I smile at him as I open the fridge. "Ready for pie?"


	4. Chapter 4

(This chapter contains spoilers from "Under the Radar.")

When Peter came home that night, he looked sick. As sick as I felt when he blurted out the story: the explosion in the warehouse, the telltale piece of Neal's painting, the fight.

But I couldn't believe that Neal had stolen the art. Not after everything we'd all been through, the trust and friendship that Peter and Neal had built.

Peter had to keep Neal's past, the sticky-fingered Hyde behind the Jekyll, at the back of his mind at all times, or he wouldn't be able to do his job effectively. At some level, I understood that. But still—I _couldn't_ believe it.

And I couldn't believe that he could believe it.

I argued with Peter half the night—over dinner (which he barely touched), then in the living room after dinner, then shouting between the bedroom and the bathroom, while Satchmo looked plaintively back and forth between us.

"Peter," I finally said, exasperated, as he came out of the bathroom. "This is _Neal__!_"

He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Yeah," he said bleakly. "Exactly. This is Neal."

I could think of nothing more to say.


	5. Chapter 5

(Set right after "The Dentist of Detroit.")

"Hon?"

I glanced up, a little surprised to hear Peter's voice. He'd been oddly quiet all evening, ever since getting back from the sting. Even as Satchmo and I had fawned all over him when he'd walked through the door, ecstatic that he was home and safe, I'd noticed it.

"Yeah?"

"Has Neal ever . . ."

"Ever what?"

"Oh—nothing. Never mind."

I shrugged and went back to loading the dishwasher.

"But has he ever—"

"Who?" I looked at him. "Neal again? Has he ever _what_?"

"No, sorry, it's stupid." Pause. "I was just. . . . No." He shook his head.

I faced him in exasperation. "Peter. If you can't even finish a sentence tonight, then . . ."

"Then what?"

"Then—" I closed the dishwasher. "I'm going to bed."

I turned and walked out of the kitchen, throwing a look at him over my shoulder as I went. His face lit up and he came after me, Neal completely forgotten.

I never did find out what that was all about.


	6. Chapter 6

(Set during "Checkmate.")

The air in the little room shimmering . . . the man across from me soaked in sweat. Staring at me blearily.

I hug myself as though chilled. _Sell it, El. Sell it. _The heat presses in.

_Don't sweat. Don't. Sweat._

Quickly dabbing away beads of perspiration with my finger, whenever his eyes leave my face. _Need water. Just a little. . . ._ I reach for it—see the ring on my hand.

Suddenly it's burning with its secret.


End file.
